At Dante's Service by Chantelle Shaw Page A

to my father’s displeasure. He wanted his heir to be born in England, at the Jarrell estate. But my mother went into labour early while she was visiting my grandparents, and so this house is my birthplace.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘Apparently my father accused my mother of giving birth early on purpose because she wanted me to be born in Italy. It was just oneof many things they could not agree on—as was the language I should be brought up to speak. My father only spoke English to me and my mother taught me Italian, so I grew up bilingual.
    ‘I went to school in England, but spent most of the holidays here with my grandmother,’ he continued. He shrugged. ‘I enjoy living in London, but I think of myself as Italian rather than English.’
    His Italian heritage was obvious in his dark olive skin tone and his jet-black hair, Rebekah mused. At his house in London she mostly saw him dressed in one of the superbly tailored suits he wore for work. He always looked gorgeous, but today he was wearing black jeans, matching shirt and designer shades and was so impossibly good-looking that she felt a fierce ache of longing whenever she looked at him. In fact she was so intent on not looking at him that she walked across the entrance hall to inspect a large framed photograph hanging on the wall.
    The woman in the photo was clearly very elderly. Her hair was white and her face lined, but despite the marks of old age she was startlingly beautiful and bore an aura of serenity that was reflected in her bright silvery-grey eyes.
    ‘Is this lady your grandmother?’ She spun round and her heart lurched when she discovered that Dante had moved silently to stand beside her.
    His eyes were focused on the picture. ‘Yes, that was Perlita a few months before she died.’
    Unexpectedly, raw emotion clogged Dante’s throat. Usually when he’d arrived at the house he’d gone straight to see his grandmother. He wished she was still here, and curiously, because he had never brought any of his mistressesto the Casa di Colombe, he wished that Rebekah could have met her. In many ways the two women were very alike, he realised. Like Nonna, Rebekah was independent and, he suspected, fiercely loyal to the people she cared about. He had heard the love in her voice when she spoke about her family.
    He glanced down at her and for the first time it struck him how petite she was compared to his tall frame. He hadn’t noticed when he had danced with her at the party because she had been wearing high heels, but now she was wearing flat shoes and he was surprised by a feeling of protectiveness. He ran his finger lightly down her cheek. ‘How are you feeling? You still look pale.’
    ‘I’m fine now that the sickness has stopped,’ she assured him.
    ‘I want you to take things easy for the next couple of days.’ Dante’s eyes glinted wickedly. ‘In fact I think you need to spend most of the time lying down.’
    Rebekah’s common sense told her to move away from him, but her heart refused to listen and her senses were swamped by his virile masculinity. The scent of his aftershave was tantalisingly sensual, as was the warmth that emanated from his body as he stepped closer and slid an arm around her waist.
    ‘Naturally, I will lie down with you to keep you company,’ he murmured in his rich as molten syrup voice.
    A shiver of excitement ran through her. Common sense urged her to pull herself out of his arms, but she was trapped by the feral gleam in his eyes so that when he lowered his head she sank against him and parted her lips in readiness for his kiss.
    Remembering his hot, hungry kisses when he had made love to her after the party, she was unpreparedfor the soft brush of his mouth on hers. As light as gossamer, he teased her lips apart in a slow, sweet kiss that was utterly beguiling. Rebekah melted into it, her whole being attuned to the exquisite sensations he aroused in her and the thudding drumbeat of desire that pounded in her blood